by J. M. Graham
With the litter on the ground, the bearers faded apart, each finding his own inconspicuous spot in the brush. They didn’t need the sergeant’s admonition of “one round will get you all.” Seeking anonymous ground in the Arizona was second nature.
Another face hovered over him, and the Chief felt his mind climbing out of a deep well toward recognition, but he couldn’t justify his place in time, and his memory was lost. As hard as he tried, his mind couldn’t find the information that would put him here, in this place, at this time. And the feeling that he was paralyzed planted a seed of panic that was taking root. “What happened?” he said weakly, feeling the refreshing sensation of wet terrycloth being dragged over his face. Cool trickles ran over his cheeks, down past his ears, and dripped from the back of his neck.
A black man looked down from what seemed a great height. “That’s a good question, Chief,” he said. There was a stern quality to his voice, a familiar quality, but the Chief couldn’t conjure the name.
The closer face, the one inverted over his, stared into his eyes. “You have a head injury, Chief. You’ve been unconscious.”
His mind couldn’t verify that information, but it did explain the searing pain. It also explained why he was unable to move. “Am I paralyzed?” he asked, a flicker of fear invading his voice. He looked up at the face and willed it back into his memory by sheer force. “Doc,” he said, almost a question.
The face broke into a smile. “Good man,” it said. “I don’t think you’re paralyzed at all. Wiggle your fingers for me.”
The web belts constricted his arms, but his hands were free and he tapped his fingers against his legs.
“Now move your feet.”
He couldn’t pull his legs apart, but he rocked his feet back and forth with no trouble.
“You’re good, Chief.”
“But I can’t move.” He raised his head gingerly and winced at the pain. When he opened his eyes he could see the web belts wrapping his body. “What the hell is this?”
Doc Brede looked up at Sergeant Blackwell. “Yeah, Sergeant. Tell the Chief what this is.”
Blackwell checked his watch. He didn’t have time for explanations, even if he wanted to provide one. “Let’s go. Move it out,” he said.
Marines came at the litter from all sides and raised it from the ground. They followed the sergeant, each keeping to an irregular cadence in his own mind, rocking the Chief as though he rode in a mobile hammock.
“Let me up. I can walk.” The Chief looked down at his chest and the emptiness there, then tilted his head back so he could see the corpsman traveling at the head of the litter. “What’s going on, Doc? Where’s my spirit pouch?”
The corpsman poured more water into the towel from his canteen. “What pouch?”
“The one I wear around my neck. Where is it?”
“I don’t know, Chief. You didn’t have it on you at the LP.”
The Chief looked around with a growing panic. “What the hell is going on, Doc?”
“Something happened last night on your LP, Chief. Tanner and the new guy are dead and there’s some confusion about how they died. Don’t you remember anything?”
The Chief’s mind raced through the previous hours, searching for anything that could anchor him to the present one, but they were blank. He feared the void would offer up something that would drop him into a world of hurt far beyond what his head was now providing, but there was nothing. It was a vast and empty expanse of possibilities. He squeezed his hands into fists and strained against the belts. “Turn me loose,” he said. He struggled with the restraints, raising his knees and kicking with his bound feet. He spit and cursed. He questioned the parentage of the surrounding Marines and threatened their physical well-being, and he did it in a voice loud enough to frighten birds in an area where remaining inconspicuous was the key to survival, for birds and men.
The Marines carrying him staggered with the violent movement. “Cool it, Chief,” one of them said.
He rocked back and forth, ignoring the pain the movement was causing in his head. The Marines were finding it hard to walk and hold onto the litter. The Chief’s contortions twisted their wrists and threatened to pull arms out of sockets.
“Hold up,” the sergeant said. He tapped Bronsky on the shoulder, holding out his hand. “Give me your weapon,” he said.
The radioman looked confused. “Huh?”
“Give me your .45, Marine. Now.”
Bronsky removed his pistol and dropped it into the sergeant’s hand.
As he took the few steps to where the Marines struggled with the rocking litter, the sergeant examined the weapon and checked the chamber. “Chief,” he said. His voice had a hard edge to it that was all business with a promise of finality.
The Chief looked up at the sergeant and the muzzle end of the Colt .45 that was pointed at his face. The barrel opening seemed as huge and black as a tunnel. He could see the sergeant’s eyes staring down the sights. They weren’t blinking and they weren’t friendly. “You can stop what you’re doing, or I’ll stop you.”
Everyone froze, including the Chief. There was an awkward silence while the sergeant’s steady hand kept the weapon pointed at a spot between the Chief’s eyes.
“People with head injuries get agitated,” Doc Brede said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m a little agitated myself, Doc,” the sergeant said. He moved the pistol in closer and thumbed the hammer back. “Chief. We’re ass deep in the Arizona and I’m not going to let you endanger any more of my people, so you can go easy, or you can go in a bag like Tanner and the new guy. You decide.”
The Chief blinked at the .45 barrel’s opening, imagining his life disappearing into it, and stopped struggling.
The sergeant lowered the pistol to his side, nodded his head, then fixed the Chief with an icy stare. “You won’t get a choice next time,” he said and turned away, slowly lowering the hammer on the weapon.
The Chief watched him walk away. “I am one of your people,” he said. The words seemed odd coming out of his mouth. It was the first time he had ever said them to someone who wasn’t Apache. He realized he had acknowledged the Corps as a tribe. A tribe he belonged to. Since joining the Marines he had always had a difficult time finding a home for his loyalties. Could he have two?
The line moved out again and the corpsman stayed close to the head of the litter. “Be cool, Chief,” he said.
“What did I do, Doc?”
“I don’t know that you did anything, Chief, and neither does anyone else. But it looks bad.” The corpsman nodded toward the bodies being carried ahead. “They were both killed with a knife.”
“My knife?”
The corpsman shrugged.
The Chief looked up at the Marines straining to keep the heavy litter moving forward. Sweat poured from their faces. The nylon loops bit into their hands and stretched their arms into twisted cords. But they worked as a team, carrying one of their own. And he knew they would not stop.
“I wouldn’t hurt my own people, Doc,” the Chief said.
“I know, Chief. Be cool.”
14
Up on the face of the Ong Thu, Lieutenant Diehl moved the rest of the platoon to the LP site and established a perimeter. He stood in the small clearing with Burke and Doc Garver at his side. Pools of blood soaked the ground, and swarms of gnats spiraled over the puddles, swooping in to land on the darker spots, taking what they could of the free meal. The air buzzed with the little opportunists, which stuck to sweaty faces and threatened the dark, inviting openings of noses and ears.
Burke pointed down. “Tanner was lying against the tree, here, and the Chief was next to him.”
The lieutenant looked at notes made yesterday and stuffed into the pocket of his map case. “Where was . . . DeLong?” he asked, uncomfortable that he didn’t immediately know the name of a Marine under his command, especially one already dead.
Doc Garver indicated the spot. “He was on his back ov
er here.” A fresh swarm of insects swirled in a congested flight pattern over the slick ground.
The lieutenant surveyed the clearing, committing it to memory. He might have to provide a detailed account and answer the kind of questions that could satisfy a military court. He wondered what questions the families would ask if they had the chance. The least of all might be: Why did two decades of hope and effort end as a puddle in a nameless patch of jungle on the other side of the world? He was glad he would only be facing court inquiries.
The platoon encircled the LP site and a private first class entered the clearing from the high side. “Laney says it looks like someone came through the bush up there,” he said.
The lieutenant looked uphill into the tangle of foliage. The frenetic chatter of birds that had filled the canopy since sunrise was beginning to diminish as the unlimited supply of insects sated their night’s fast. “Show me,” the lieutenant said, starting upgrade. He was glad to get away from the clearing with its growing population of buzzing feeders and gruesome reminders of Marine lives lost.
They followed the man upward single file and soon came upon Laney crouched in the bush. He pointed to some stalks cleaved off near ground level. “These are fresh,” he said, rubbing his thumb over an exposed stump. “Someone came this way recently.” A shrill tweet sounded behind a bank of broad leaves, and Laney left the others standing there and went in that direction like a lovesick bird responding to a mate’s summons. He returned quickly. “We have a blood trail, sir. Someone made a wide path going up the mountain, and they were bleeding out.”
Without waiting for the others the lieutenant dashed off in the direction of the birdcall, driven by the promise of redemption for his platoon. Maybe the weight he had carried around all morning, dragging him down like a five-G force, would be lifted and the shadow of murder that darkened his platoon would vanish in the light of day. He found another Marine standing beside a large, variegated leaf marked with a blood splatter. A wide swath of plants was trampled, and the Marine pointed up the path. “They went that way,” he said.
Laney and Burke went where the trampled plants led them, following the trail of dark drips and splotches. The lieutenant was close behind. “Hold up, you two,” he said. “We have wounded VC in the bush, and we don’t know where. Get your squad up here. Laney, your team is on point.” He looked around. “Where the hell is my radio?” From behind Doc Garver came a hesitant voice. “Here, sir.” The radioman pushed past the doc.
The lieutenant grabbed the radioman’s shoulder strap and pulled him close. “Clyde, as long as you carry that box we’re joined at the hip. If I even think about using the radio, you better be close enough to slap the handset into my hand. It that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get me Blackwell on the horn. I think we should let him know the Chief is in the clear.”
“Yes, sir.”
The rotors pushing the H-34 westward strobed the morning sun into slices so thin they were indistinguishable to the human eye. The big green machine split the air at a speed far beyond what the grasshopper aerodynamics of the fuselage seemed to suggest possible, and the airspeed scooped turbulence through the open door that whipped the folds of Strader’s uniform against his arms and legs. The corporal’s rank pins on his collar slapped at his jaw line. He watched the young door gunner leaning back against the front bulkhead, oblivious to the aerial scenery that flashed by the door just inches away. While Strader was aware of being thousands of feet in the air in an awkward machine that from all appearances had no right to be flying, the gunner seemed at home in his office doing his job, the same as he did every day, and the view from the door that twisted Strader’s stomach into a knot seemed only more of the same to the younger Marine. He appeared as inured to the sight as any bureaucratic pencil pusher in a high-rise building would be to the view from his office window.
Strader knew when they crossed the Thu Bon that they were headed into the wilds of the Arizona. Just yesterday he was sure that the only way he would see the place again was in his nightmares, but here he was, being dragged back into it as though it were a big, malicious green magnet. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at the worn surface of the chopper deck. Why was it you were never finished in the Corps? No matter how much you did, there was always one more thing to do. It was like trying to reach a destination by going half the distance to it with every move. If you could cover only half the journey each trip, theoretically you could never arrive. If you couldn’t leave until you were done but there was always one more thing to do, you could never leave. It was the kind of conundrum that played with the brain and made for sleepless nights.
The gunner leaned forward and tilted his head like the RCA Victor dog listening to his master’s voice. He waved at Strader and pointed at the M60. “We’re getting close,” he yelled, swinging the door gun to his shoulder. Strader gripped the 60 at the window. He could see the northeastern curve of the Ong Thu range in the distance, pointing its threatening finger in the direction of the Marine base at Phu Loc. He glanced at the door gunner over his shoulder. The Marine caressed his M60 with the casual familiarity of someone who knows his tool intimately, the way a carpenter knows his hammer and a mechanic knows his wrench. He could push the capabilities of his weapon to its limits and, as his marked face showed, beyond.
Strader had never been overly confident in his own skill with the M60. He appreciated the kind of firepower it added to a squad, but it was heavy and hungry for ammunition and took some practice to master. You had to learn to lead your targets and guide the tracers in like they were at the end of a long, flexible rod. Strader had only fired the gun from ground positions, and he was sure the difficulty was compounded when it was mounted on a moving helicopter. He imagined it would be like shooting skeet while riding on the back of another clay pigeon. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to pull the trigger.
The villages of Dai Khuong and Phu Loi 3 passed below, and glints of sunlight ricocheted from the lake beyond Nam An. Just beyond Phu Loi 3, a stream of tracers rose up in front of the helicopter, reaching blindly for the heavens, waiting patiently for the machine to fly into them. But the flyers had seen that tactic many times before. The pilot banked sharply to port, increased speed, and then leveled out. The maneuver evaded the streaming bullet trap, and before the shooter had time to correct his aim, the helicopter covered enough distance to make it no longer a viable target. The sudden pitch of the deck froze Strader’s blood, and he was sure that his grip on the bulkhead was damaging either his hands or the fuselage. He had to force his eyes open to see if the gunner was still in the compartment. The door gunner leaned casually against the front bulkhead looking at Strader with a toothy grin. He held his hands out like wings and mimicked the radical path the helicopter had just taken. He laughed, but the sound was lost in the engine noise and the ringing in Strader’s ears.
The squad of Marines at the foot of the mountain, using the pilots’ radio frequency, directed them to the edge of the trees where green smoke marked the LZ. While the copilot kept up a running dialogue with the squad, the pilot banked the helicopter toward the green clouds coming from the open ground just beyond the tree line.
The big grasshopper swooped in, and with the deft manipulations the pilot swung the tail around and set the machine down with the wide starboard door facing the mountain. Before the struts took the full weight of the helicopter, Marines were moving out of the trees, bent over their loads. The gunner watched them emerge, struggling with the bodies wrapped in green, and his hand tightened on the grip of his M60 until the knuckles were white. The post sight at the end of the 60’s barrel moved slowly across the face of the mountain, sweeping the thousand invisible places where malevolent eyes could be watching. His finger hovered over the trigger, waiting for the first sight of a muzzle flash.
The first group of Marines reached the helicopter and slid a body in a poncho liner through the door. Strader abandoned his gun and pulled the
body away from the opening, making room for the ones coming. He knew from the way the Marines handled the body that there was no reason to be especially gentle. He recognized the faces that turned and ran with stooped bodies. He wondered what familiar face was hidden inside the poncho. Immediately, the second group moved in and Corporal Middleton helped Franklin lift Tanner’s body onto the chopper deck. Strader could see there was no undue care taken with this body either, and he helped the gunner pull it unceremoniously into the shadows. Corporal Middleton stayed at the opening. “Hey! Our corpsman needs that litter,” he yelled above the noise. The gunner rolled Tanner’s body onto its side, and Strader jerked the litter free. He crushed it into a bundle and handed it to the waiting corporal. “Here. Don’t say I never gave you anything,” Strader said.
Middleton stood dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open. “Reach. What the hell are you doing here? Are you out of your damn mind?”
Strader watched the third group moving in with their litter. He could see from the attention they paid that this one held live cargo. He shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t my idea, Carl,” he said. “What’s happened here?”
Now it was Middleton’s turn to shrug.
The third litter arrived feet first, and Middleton stepped aside so it could be turned. Doc Brede strained to set the Chief’s shoulders onto the deck while others threw bundles of equipment in after him. Three packs and the Chief’s cartridge belt with the stag-horn knife hit the deck along with three M16s. “Look who’s here,” Middleton yelled, slapping Doc’s shoulder and pointing into the compartment.
Doc Brede looked up as Strader reached for one of the litter straps. “Reach. Are you insane? Lieutenant Diehl is going to tear you a new asshole.”
“Where is he?” Strader said, looking expectantly toward the tree line.
